Strange Encounters

Encounter 1:

When my workplace moved, we sublet our old space to another company. This company has been in touch with me by phone for various reasons via their receptionist, Sandy. Last week Sandy called to let me know that she had some of our mail which had slipped through the post office's forwarding service. I said I'd drop by and pick it up.

Walking into our old space and seeing Sandy for the first time, I had a profound sense of deja vu. I thought to myself: "I could swear that this woman worked as a receptionist for our company five years ago." Except that the woman I remembered was definitely not called Sandy. I couldn't remember her name, but "Sandy" didn't match the face in front of me. Could she have changed her name?

As we made small talk, I stared at her, trying to assess the situation. She showed no recognition of me at all, but back in the day I had long hair and glasses and looked completely different. Even so, wouldn't she have said something? She couldn't have forgotten working for two years at this exact address. Perhaps it was simply a freakish coincidence that she looked so like this woman I'd worked with?

Eventually Sandy said:

"I think my sister used to work here."

"Ah," I said, "that explains it! I've been staring at you all this time wondering why you look so familiar!"

Turns out she has an idential twin sister who is also a receptionist. They wear their hair in the exact same style. Susan worked for my company, and several years later her twin Sandy is working for another company in the same suite. What are the odds of that? I'd say slim to microscopic. It was very Twilight Zone.

Encounter 2:

I get a phone call from a stranger asking if I know anything about a Bob Green. The name sounds familiar. I believe my step-dad has a business connection with him. I get a picture in my head of one of my step-dad's colleagues. As I'm telling the caller that yes, I do know Bob Green, I realize the man I'm picturing is Bob Smith.

Who the heck is Bob Green then? I think harder. Oh, wait, isn't he that creepy guy who sank one of my step-dad's business ventures and then died under mysterious circumstances? Yep, I'm pretty sure that's him. But not 100% sure.

The caller explains to me that Bob Green is his long-lost cousin. I take his number down and promise to call him back.

Later, I speak to my step-dad. Indeed, I'm right about Bob Green. Not only is he dead, but he disappeared under suspicious circumstances. He owed money to a loan shark. My step-dad says that he died in a "boating accident", that is, gangsters threw him into a deep lake with his arms and legs bound to teach him a lesson. The man is fish food.

My step-dad remembers the cousin and says he never liked him. He asks me to call back and give him the bad news. I've never had to do that before: tell someone that a loved one of theirs has passed away. I think of the doctors on Grey's Anatomy. They always say "We did everything we could." Well, that doesn't help me much.

In the end I make the call and it's not that bad. I leave out the part about the loan shark and the boating accident. The man sounds upset, but if his cousin's been dead for three or four years and he didn't know, how close could they have been?

Washroom Wars

My massage therapist's office is on the 29th floor of a 30-storey office building. Each floor houses up to ten suites, mostly lawyers' offices, accountants, and some health care professionals. It's a top-grade building in a prime location.

Last time I stopped by the 29th floor ladies' room prior to my appointment, I found the following notice, printed on 8.5" x 11" paper taped over each toilet bowl:

"To the ANIMAL who pisses on the toilet seat:

You are NOT the only person who uses this facility. Have some common decency and clean up after yourself if you MUST piss on the seat."

The rage underlying the note was so palpable I took a step backwards. Woah. When it comes to washrooms, people get emotional.

I wonder if the author of the note truly believes that there's only one woman who consistently sprays the seats. The building is open to the public; the washrooms are not locked; and the offices on the floor must attract dozens of client visits every day. It's strangers who are most likely to be inconsiderate.

There are washroom politics going on at my office too. Here's the setup: We have mens' and ladies' washrooms which can accomodate three customers apiece, accessible to staff and clients. There's usually at least one stall available in the ladies' room at all times and I hear that the gents' is the same. There is also a single staff-only washroom, shared by all genders, which can accomodate one person at a time. The staff-only washroom is almost always occupied.

Our staff prefer to avoid the less busy, public washrooms because they don't want to run into clients while they're having a private moment. I previously blogged about the time when I was in a stall with the door closed, and a client started making demands to me about her appointments and complaining about our customer service. I had to inform her that I would not discuss business with her in the washroom. Some of our clients aren't good at respecting boundaries.

So if the staff washroom is busy and the public washrooms are unattractive, where do some staff members go to do a number? They take the stairs to the next floor up and use their washrooms. Seems like a reasonable solution, yes?

The floor above us isn't nearly as busy as ours. We got the lock codes for their washrooms from building management one time when there was a major plumbing problem and we couldn't use the toilets on our floor at all. After that I would occasionally go upstairs to use the facilities. Until one time when I was up there and two women came in. One was complaining loudly about the fact that "those people from the other floor" were using their washrooms. Her tone was so scathing and hateful that I never went back up there again. No one should have to take verbal abuse with their pants around their ankles. It wasn't worth it.

Other women from our staff took a rebellious attitude and kept going upstairs anyway. They figured: we're paying rent to the building; the washrooms don't belong to any one tenant; and it's not like those washrooms are busy enough that the handful of extra users is going to create a line-up. They don't pee on the seats or clog the toilets. There's no logical reason why we can't all share.

The loud woman from the other floor took up arms against the notion of sharing. Maybe it's a primal thing. When animals pee on something it becomes their territory. I guess she felt the need to defend her toilets.

This woman, the Evil Toilet Queen, became increasingly militant. When verbally badgering our staff didn't deter them, she went to building management and demanded that they issue a memo to us asking us to cease and desist from all use of the other floor's washrooms. Building management never sent us a memo. I don't know if they have an official policy on the matter. I suspect, based on their overall approach to the whole landlord thing, that they don't give a flying fart either way. They decided to play dumb and let us fight it out amongst ourselves.

The latest development was a phone call from the Evil Toilet Queen. I'm told that earlier she came down to our floor in person to speak to "someone in charge", but fortunately I was on my lunch break at the time. She informed me that if our staff did not immediately stop using the other floor's toilets she would call a locksmith to change the locks on those washrooms, and then send us the bill.

Honestly. Does this woman have nothing better to do with her time?

I told her fine, fair enough. I suppose I could have escalated the issue to building management, to see if they actually approved of the threat, but I actually do have better things to do with my time. Anyway, we're moving in three months, to a new location with plenty of washrooms, including a grand total of six staff-only toilets. We can pee to our hearts' delight.

In closing I'd like to reiterate this basic rule of etiquette: If you sprinkle when you tinkle, please be neat and wipe the seat. It'd be an even better idea to sit down. Line the seat with paper if you must. Ladies be aware: if you're squatting and spraying all over the seat, you're also spraying some of that wild, out-of-control pee onto your clothes. And that's disgusting. Be responsible and sit down properly. That is all.

Goody Goody Two-Shoes

What does that expression mean, anyway? I've never known troublemakers to wear a different number of shoes than well-behaved people. Granted, if you run across someone in the street who's only wearing one shoe, you're likely looking at a problematic situation. But I've known plenty of bad people who wear two shoes. I'm just sayin'.

Anyway, the point of this post is to tell you about a most unique experience I had over the holidays: the Church Chum Party. You already know that I sing in a band at church, but I haven't told you much about the other members. In fact, I know very little about them. We've all basically gotten together only for practices every month for almost a year now. One of the newly married couples in the group decided it was time we all sat down for some proper socializing.

The players were: Ken and I, the host (and group leader) and hostess, another set of newlyweds (piano and bass guitar), our drummer, and a cute Korean exchange student who barely has half-a-dozen words of English at her command, but is remarkably cheerful. The exchange student is our backup piano player.

I always have a dilemma when visiting someone else's home for the first time. I'm as poorly insulated as Ron's house, so I like to know in advance what environment I should be dressing for. Will they have the thermostat turned down to 68 degrees? Or, since this event was billed as a fondue party, should I be prepared to swelter in the presence of many small pots of fire?

I figured the two factors would even each other out, so I dressed for a moderate temperature, and brought a pair of slippers along for good measure. What I should have done was wear my snowpants, boots, and a parka, and politely decline to leave any of the above in the coatroom. That lovely, spacious, character-filled post-war flat was chilly as a refrigerator. They had a fire going in their honest-to-goodness wood-burning, brick fireplace, but a couple of the girls parked themselves in front of it like cats and absorbed all the heat. My little slippers were no defense against the artic drafts that blew across the highly polished floorboards.

Not to worry, I told myself. I'll have some nice hot dinner. That'll warm me up. Sure. Picture this: eight hungry people fighting for cooking positions at two tiny fondue pots. You skewer a wee bite of food on your fondue fork, throw it in the pot, and watch the clock for three minutes before you can eat that bite and start cooking another one. Did you know that three minutes is a very long time in between bites of dinner? Try it with your regular dinner tonight. I dare you.

The host and hostess had gone to a great deal of trouble to set out a lovely spread, with all sorts of yummy tidbits and sauces, but I was cold and hungry. I tried very hard to feel grateful and not get too cranky.

Fortunately there was a kick-ass dark chocolate fondue for dessert. That made up for some of my complaints.

Then the conversation turned to matters religous. The bass player, a theology student, had a lot of Opinions and his wife, the pianist, was quick to second everything he said. Brows furrowed and the atmosphere grew earnest. Some people offered stories of how they felt they had served The Lord, and others reminded the storytellers to beware the sin of pride. The conversation struggled in an uncomfortable no-man's land between peoples' desire to come across sounding Holy and Knowledgeable vs. their desire to come across as humble and self-effacing.

I offered up a couple of opinions and found that people were disagreeing with me. Except I didn't even understand what their basis for disagreement was. Either I had expressed myself poorly, or they had gotten the wrong end of the stick, because I couldn't find any difference between what we were saying. I tried to clarify the matter and came away no further ahead. Eventually I sat back and let the eager folks keep track of who had put their hand up when, in order not to interrupt each other. It was truly unlike any other party I've ever attended.

It seemed to go on for hours, but I thought that was just my icy feet talking. In fact, the Korean exchange student looked at me worriedly and showed me the face of her wristwatch: 12:30 am!! Good grief. She whispered "When finish?" I was like "Now, if I have anything to say about it!" I grabbed my guy, my coat, and we made tracks out of there, leaving a hurried trail of thanks and take care's behind us.

I had a lot more fun on New Year's Eve with our secular friends. Our church friends are wonderful people, but I'm still not sure exactly how to deal with their angle on things.

Dodging Danger: A Big Storm and Teenagers

It was a crazy night. It started with the storm.

I was in my naturopath’s office when the first rumbles of thunder became distinguishable from the traffic outside. We were sitting in his consulting room. A door stood open to his acupuncture treatment room, where there’s a skylight and a big picture window. The lightening flickers coming in through the door were so constant and regular it looked like there was a big TV in there, left on and tuned to static.

The wind outside picked up. Rain lashed against the windows. The rolling and crashing of thunder was almost constant. And yet, we were nowhere near the centre of the storm.

By the time our session was over, the storm was receding. The rain was still coming down in sheets, and it was twilight-dark outside much too early, but the worst I suffered from that storm was soaked feet as I ran to the subway.

Others were not so lucky.

I found a seat on a subway train among other damp and dripping folks. At the very next stop, a man around my age took the seat next to me. He was talking to himself.

“Six… dozen… chicken wings,” he said, jiggling his left leg nervously.

He murmured some inaudible comments, and then suddenly, with a big flourish, he whipped open the plastic bag he was carrying and pulled out a hairbrush. His hair was wet and messy from the storm.

He brought the brush up, and over his shoulder. He tapped himself on the back with it several times, between his shoulder blades. He threw it in the air and caught it, twice, with great concentration. That done, he dove back into his plastic bag and put the hairbrush away. He leaned back in his seat.

“Strong and powerful,” he said. “Strong and powerful PUNCH! PEANUT PUNCH!”

At this point I was having a very hard time keeping a straight face.

“Nutritious food,” he mused. “Sweet potatoes. Okra. Ackee.” Mumble mumble. He got off at the same stop as me. I walked slowly to fall far behind him. He paced off energetically, presumably in search of something to eat for his dinner. Six dozen chicken wings, perhaps?

I got myself dinner at a food court, and got back on the subway to go home. There were some girls who looked to be around 15 years old, standing in a little clump, talking loudly amongst themselves. Skinny jeans, hoodies, big gold bangles, neon pink and neon green nail polish.
Two stops later, another bunch of girls got on the train. I still can’t figure out if the two groups were loud, obnoxious friends trying to freak out all the other passengers, or if they genuinely would have liked to tear each others’ eyes out with their manicured fingernails. But the verbal bust-up that went on for the next five minutes had me ready to push the “Emergency Stop Get Help We Are In Danger Eeeeeeeeeee!” security strip over my seat. They were yelling and screaming at each other, calling each other every possible disgusting name, and making violent threats.

Finally one of the groups got off. There was some banging on the train windows before we pulled away to safety, but whew! No one’s eyes were gouged.

I got off at a transfer point, only to be almost destroyed by a team of adolescent boys who were running for the train like a stampede of charging rhinos. I threw myself up against a wall and felt the sleeve of the closest boy’s T-shirt brush my upper arm as he raced past. I would have been knocked flat on my back I hadn’t jumped out of the way.

Anyway, I finally made it home all in one piece, and found my home all in one piece, at the end of the evening. My roof was not ripped off. I was not struck by lightening or flying debris. I wasn’t attacked by a crazy man or evil teenaged girls. Nor was I squashed by teenaged boys, or even a subway train.

I’m feeling lucky!

Back to Life

Were you getting bored reading about my illness? Because I was getting bored of writing about it. And living it.

Fortunately, I'm back to my regular life, and with it, much more interesting blog fodder.

For example, there is a public washroom in my workplace which we share with our visitors. It's not horribly disgusting, but it is a public washroom. It can safely be assumed that no surface in there is truly clean. People fill urine sample bottles in there and then leave them standing on the counter by the sinks while they wash their hands, for example. Therefore, I always assume there are trace amounts of urine on those counters.

I touch everything in there through a layer of paper towel.

Today I went in and a woman had her stuff spread out everywhere. She had a very fuzzy, cozy blanket that I guess she wears like a cloak over her parka. It was drapped over the counter into the basin of a sink. A lovely, furry blanket, soaking up all the germy water from the sink basin. Yuck.

She had also left an open can of pop sitting out on the counter between the sinks, where anyone could drip water or soap into it.

Meanwhile, she was in one of the stalls, carrying on a LOUD conversation on her cell phone.

When she emerged, she started chatting with me. And I have to say, she had a very likeable personality. Friendly as can be, big smile, obviously not an anxious type. She was complaining in a good-natured way about how difficult it is to find a subway token in a handful of change. She then proceeded to pull all the contents of her pockets out and spread them across the counter.

Is it crazy that this type of behaviour gives me the heebie jeebies? I don't consider myself to be excessively germ-phobic. But it's a public bathroom, for crying out loud!

Noteworthy Decor

On Wednesday I had a surprise phone call at work. It was a girlfriend who I've known since Grade 1, my super-best-friend from Grades 4 through 8. She's now married to a doctor (who I've known since we were all 16) and just had her third child in September.

They live on the west coast, in Nelson, B.C., so I don't get to see them much. I watch the kids grow up in a lengthy, stop-motion animation of infrequent visits. I knew they were due in town sometime around the holidays, but I wasn't expecting a call that day. It was the best surprise I've had in a long time.

We made plans to meet for dinner that same night. Ken and I drove up to Thornhill where they were staying with my girlfriend's in-laws. As we rounded the corner into the cul-de-sac, I had a flashback to 1989, when I had visited that house once before.

Of course, when we first arrived, my friend and her family had all my attention. Her boys, ages 6 and 3, are sprouting up, and her 10-week-old daughter is as sweet a baby as you'll ever meet. Celeste was awake when we got there, so I got the satisfaction of immediate smiles and snuggles. She's just a wee thing at a shade over 9 lbs, but she can already hold up her head just fine, thank you very much.

I even talked Ken into holding the baby for a few minutes - not his preference, but once she was on his lap, smiling gummily, he relaxed. I don't know what it is with men. Until the second they become fathers (and possibly after that, I don't know) they seem to have no inclination whatsoever towards holding babies. All the non-dads I know say "But I'm scared I'm gonna drop it!"

OK, first of all she/he is not an "it". And second of all, when was the last time you dropped anything? These fellows handle sharp knives and power tools with total confidence. How is holding a baby scarier than using a nail gun? I don't get it.

The boys stayed behind with their nana and gramps. The rest of us drove around the corner to Congee Queen restaurant. It's the kind of Chinese restaurant where you can order a whole roasted pig, with enough advance notice. (Large Pig $185, Medium Pig $ 135). There was so much cornstarch in the sauce that our shrimp dish looked like it was covered in a thick layer of clear-dry glue. However, it didn't taste like glue. We had a good feast.

Back at the in-laws' house, I had a chance to take a look around. It was EXACTLY the same as when I was there in 1989. In fact all the decor was pretty much the same as when the family moved in, in 1981. They actually have a parlor, otherwise known as "the room nobody is allowed to go into". The colour scheme is green and peach, with silver-foil-swirl wallpaper. And lots of silk flowers in peach and minty green - the kind with glitter on the petals.

In fact, there are silk flower arrangements everywhere in that house, as many as three in any given room. It's really quite something to see. It answers that burning question: who buys silk flowers anyway? Apparently my friends in-laws buy ALL of them.

I don't want to be mean. They were very gracious hosts. I just couldn't resist telling the story. I figure anything that makes my eyeballs bug out like that is worth sharing.

Baby Boo-Boo

Does anyone else remember Baby Boo-Boo? I swear, I did not hallucinate this. At least, I'm pretty sure I didn't.

Most of you have probably seen those spam e-mails about how amazing it is that any of us children of the 1970's survived to adulthood. No seat-belt laws, no helmet laws, public smoking allowed everywhere, etc. In the park I frequented, on Eglinton just West of Yonge St., the high monkey bars on the jungle gym ran for around 12 feet at a height of 10 feet off the ground. I know of at least one kid who broke a wrist when he fell.

However, let us not accuse the adults in our lives of not taking an interest in our safety! The children of Canada had Elmer the Safety Elephant to give us tips on how to play without getting hurt. And once a year, Elmer would show up at my primary school with the Toronto Police, to give us a lesson on street safety.

These visits were always scheduled during warm weather, so we could all be called out into the main schoolyard, a huge enclosure that was entirely paved in asphalt. The police probably talked about things like not taking candy from strangers, but that's not the part that I remember. What I remember is Baby Boo-Boo.

Baby Boo-Boo had the thankless job of teaching us why we should look both ways before crossing the street.

She was a plastic doll, around 3 feet tall, with a cap of blond hair and big blue eyes. They didn't even bother to dress her. As several hundred primary school children looked on in fascinated horror, the police would sit Baby Boo-Boo on an orange traffic cone. Then one of the cops would get into the squad car, rev the engine, and deliberately run her over.

She had a cavity inside her hollow body which they would pre-fill with cherry Kool-Aid, so after the car cleared the scene, she'd be left lying on the asphalt, limbs splayed, in a puddle of red liquid.

And that, kids, is why you always have to be careful crossing the street! If you don't pay attention, you'll end up like Baby Boo-Boo.

Can you imagine the outcry from parents if this violent demonstration were used today? People would freak out. And think of the message we all got: during our few annual minutes of interaction with actual police officers, we saw them deliberately run over a naked, child-sized doll. Probably not the best way to build faith in our society's protectors.

They did succeed in making an impression on me. I remember few moments from my school years with this much clarity.

So, seriously. Does anyone else remember a Baby Boo-Boo?

Hardcore Delicious

It's still wintery, BAH!, yada yada, you've heard all this before. Today's coping mechanism is:

Recollecting A Fond Moment Associated with Snow

Back in the winter of 1998-1999, I was living with my (now ex-)husband in a one-bedroom basement apartment. It was pretty nice as far as basement apartments go, with a window in every room (except for the bathroom). It was warm and dry and cozy.

The building had six units, and we had friends or allies in five of them. The couple who lived in the sixth apartment were known as "The New People" and were rather left out of things. Anyway, it was super-cool to be able to go socializing without even having to put on a pair of shoes.

The other basement-dweller, in a studio apartment on the other side of the stairwell, was Chuck.

In early January 1999, the weather authorities predicted a record-breaking snowstorm. My husband was in Montreal on business. It was just me, in the apartment, alone.

As the afternoon wore on, the snow piled up. By just before sunset, my windows were almost covered by it. I started to feel restless. I padded down the hall and knocked on Chuck's door.

Chuck was happy to have company. His apartment, situated under the front porch, had no windows, but was paradoxically less claustrophobic because I couldn't see myself being slowly buried by snow. I sat on the futon-couch and watched Friends re-runs on TV while he ran a batch of home-made pasta dough through a hand-cranked pasta-making-machine.

Chuck: You want to stay for dinner?

Me: OK, but please can I have no MSG on my noodles?

Chuck: But that's what makes it tasty!

He was teasing me. He knew full well that I couldn't eat MSG without feeling like my brain was swelling and about to explode out of my skull. He liked to season his pasta with an MSG-loaded soup mix, and I liked to give him a hard time about it.

Me: You really shouldn't eat that stuff. It's bad for you.

Chuck: The other day I ate so much that I got a nosebleed.

Me: OMG, seriously?

Chuck: I made a batch of pasta, and ate it for dinner. Next day, I ate the leftovers. They tasted kinda bland, so I added more seasoning. I had a bit of a headache, but it tasted awesome! Then the next night, I ate the rest of the leftovers. They weren't very tasty, so I added more seasoning. I got a really bad headache, and then my nose started to bleed.

Me: Chuck! You should listen to your body! When you get a bad headache, that's your body telling you to stop eating so much MSG!

Chuck: I was listening to my body. I was hungry, and my stomach was telling me to eat more!

To this day, Chuck adds industrial-strength quantities of MSG to his food. I can handle normal amounts, for example, a serving of seasoned potato chips is fine. But boy oh man, just last year I ate a pile of Chuck's custom pasta with his full ration of Knorr Swiss powder, and I was literally holding my head for the rest of the night. Oy, the pounding in my temples!

Chuck's motto is "What doesn't kill me makes me stronger." Apparently this also applies to seasoning his food.

BFF: A History

Since a comment by whatigotsofar on this post, I've been thinking about the friend life cycle, and its unpredictability. I've been so convinced, at times, that a certain person would be in my life until the bittersweet end, only to have them drift off, or abruptly disappear. Others who were challenging to get along with have gone the distance and are now in my closest inner circle.

So where have the old friends gone? Let's take an inventory:

Best grade school girlfriend:
Now living in British Columbia with two kids and a third on the way. For the non-Canadians, BC is on the West coast of Canada, far away from me.

I propose re-naming British Columbia to Chums Movawayfromia. A few other women have come into my life, seemed like great friend material, and then just as I was feeling comfortable with them they all went "Guess what? I'm moving to BC!" I would move there myself, just to help my social life, if all my family weren't in Toronto.

Best Middle-School and High-School girlfriends:
Long gone.

Best University girlfriend:
Still my best girlfriend. Hi Aurora!

The woman I met at my first I.T. job:
This one, I had pegged as a BFF. We spent all day e-mailing each other almost every weekday. And it wasn't just silly girltalk either. We spilled our guts about everything.

She was there for me as I agonized over whether or not I should leave my first husband. She cried on my shoulder over her endless dating failures and ticking biological clock. We knew everything about each other.

Then she finally landed a man. I heard every detail of the courtship, and shared her victory when he finally proposed.

I went to visit the newly engaged couple. I noticed, and obviously my friend did too, that her fiance really enjoyed looking at me all night. And that was that. I never heard from her again. Not an e-mail, not a phone call, not a letter. Just, pffft - GONE.

I was as heartbroken as when my first love dumped me.

Best girlfriend from psychology school:
She's awesome. We need to get our acts together and meet more often.

Worst girlfriend from psychology school:
Started out as top candidate for the best girlfriend. We were the same age, had lots in common; she lived in my neighbourhood. We hung out and had fun for a year at school and outside of it.

One day I called her after a fight with Ken, because I was feeling down, and I was working on reaching out to people instead of isolating myself when I was feeling sad. It was a conscious risk, and I was nervous about calling. I left a message that was a little wistful, saying that I was sorry to have missed her and could she call me back.

She called me back all right. She was furious. She perceived that my message was "passive aggressive". Told me that she didn't have time for people who were not clear about their needs. Asked me to set out for her exactly how many phone calls I required from her per month, and how many minutes per call. She said she had a lot of friends and didn't have time to devote that much to each one.

We spoke a couple of times after that and tried to come to an understanding, but we never could. Obviously, that ended our friendship. And since then, I haven't risked calling a friend on the phone when I'm feeling very low, despite many warm invitations to do so. (But sometimes I'll e-mail.)

This isn't a comprehensive list, but it shows the extremes.

I'm grateful for the friends I have now - they're terrific! I haven't said as much about my friend successes, but only because I'm a drama queen and I love telling those shocking stories. Guy friends have not been forgotten; that's a topic for another post.

Also, I haven't always been a perfect friend. That's a topic for another post too.

Semi-Automated Teller

I'm waiting in line for a bank machine. There are two of them side by side. A woman in her 50's is at one of them, and a woman in her 20's is at the other. They both have their heads down, dealing with transactions. Both machines are beeping as the ladies press various buttons.

I wait patiently.

Suddenly the younger woman whips around to face me.

Younger Woman: How do you deposit a cheque into this thing? Do you know how to do it?

Me: Uh, yeah, sure. I can help you.

I'm in a good mood and not in any hurry. I think: I can help her out to speed things along. It won't be a big deal. But then the older woman turns towards me.

Older Woman: How you put in cheque? I need make deposit. You help me.

The odds are so against this. I have never, in 23 years of using bank machines, been asked for help by even one person. People usually keep to themselves, respecting each others' financial privacy. And suddenly two women are both demanding to have me look over their shoulders and assist them with their transactions? It seems very suspicious.

But what can I do? Now that I've offered my services as onsite tech support, I feel committed. Besides, I want to use a bank machine, so I've got to get at least one of these ladies sorted out and on her way.

Younger Woman: What do I do?

Me: You press that key, that says "Deposit".

Older Woman: This right? How I do?

Me [to Older Woman]: OK, now press "End of items"

Younger Woman: Like this?

Me [to Younger Woman]: No, wait, you have to type it in with the decimal place. Here, press the "Cancel"...

Older Woman: Why no savings?

Her machine is giving her the ominously low-pitched "BOOP BOOP!" of an error. I look at her screen and the "Savings" option is grayed out. She is pressing the soft key next to "Savings" aggressively and repeatedly, despite the booping.

I try to explain that she must not have a savings account with this bank, and wouldn't she like to deposit the cheque to her chequing account? Meanwhile the younger woman is trying to regain my attention.

It goes back and forth like this for several hectic minutes, each of them blundering hopelessly as soon as my back is turned, and then canceling their transactions and starting from scratch.

Finally the older woman gives up and leaves the machine to make a call on her cellphone. The younger woman manages to enter her cheque amount and put the cheque in an envelope. I correct her when she tries to feed the envelope into the wrong slot on the machine (the one the printed receipts are dispensed from), although the correct slot has a flashing light over it. Then, as the envelope disappears from sight, she panics:

Oh my god! I made a mistake! I put the envelope in upside-down!

I assure her that the bank will not reject her deposit, even though her envelope wasn't oriented exactly the same way as the illustration over the envelope slot. So she immediately gets on her cellphone and starts digging in her handbag.

The older woman may not have managed to get her cheque deposited, but at least she thanked me before she took off!

No one jumped out to tell me that I'd been punked, so now I'm convinced that I was being observed by scientists. Next time, I'd like to just get my cash and ignore everyone around me, like usual.

Crazy Neighbour 2

It all started innocently enough, on Mother's Day.

I had been getting to know Nina, our next-door apartment neighbour who was around my own age. I found out that she'd given birth to her son when she was 19, and had raised him alone in difficult circumstances. Although she'd done her very best to do right by him, had sacrificed her own hopes and dreams to provide for him, he was going through an adolescent rebellious phase. A short time ago, he said a lot of very unkind things to her, and moved in with his dad.

Distraught and bereft, Nina moved to Toronto from her smallish hometown, to try to make a life for herself without her son. She didn't know anyone here, and Toronto is a notoriously unfriendly city. People err on the side of polite silence, and avoiding eye contact. She was not used to living alone in her new apartment. And then it was Mother's Day. Her son probably wouldn't call. She was feeling like crap.

Ken often brought me flowers back then, because he's awesome like that, and because there was a cute little flower shop on his walk home from work. Nina sometimes ran into him in the hall as he unlocked our door, and admired the bouquets. He thought it would be a nice gesture to bring Nina some flowers on Mother's Day. And so he did.

We'd each been over to each others' place a few times before, so it didn't seem odd to him when she invited him over for tea a few days later. But something in the way she curled up on the couch this time... the vibe was different. She was coquettish. Eyelashes were batted. Leading questions were tabled.

I got home around twenty minutes after Ken had accepted the invitation to tea. As I was still shrugging off my jacket, I heard a door open and close outside, and then our own door opened and Ken rushed in, like something was chasing him. He looked a little wild-eyed.

Ken: You're never going to believe what Nina just said to me.

Me: What? What did she say?

Ken: She said that all her friends said that the flowers meant...

Me: What?

Ken: She thought we were trying to get her to have a three-way!

Me: [loud enough to be heard through our common wall]
WHAT ?!!!!!

Ken: Yeah, she wants to have sex with both of us.

Me: *stunned silence*

Ken: Well, what do you think?

Me: Uh, it's flattering, I guess.

Ken: Would you do it?

So we considered the option, or at least we pretended to give it serious consideration. I felt a responsibility to at least hypothesize about whether or not it was a good idea. Lots of people would feel like they won the lottery with that offer. She was a fairly attractive woman. I didn't want to regret it later in life, kicking myself for being too conservative.

But in the end, we just weren't into it. Even Ken, who ostensibly had nothing to lose, realized that the reality of a three-way could get really awkward, and then being next-door neighbours could become unbearable. And although I can appreciate the beauty of women, I'm pretty firmly in the straight camp. I didn't have any desire to experience Nina without her clothes on.

Things were never quite the same living next to Nina, after that day. I think we were all relieved when Ken and I moved out. Last time I ran into her, she said she was still living there, and that a couple of loud Russian women had moved into our old apartment. She said they argued and shouted day and night. She said that she misses us. I guess she won't be offering the Russians a three-way.

Crazy Neighbour 1

I had seen him around the halls, but we didn't speak to each other until we crossed paths in the laundry room. A good-looking guy, a couple of years older than me, he was my next-door neighbour. I'll call him Joe.

Joe was a delivery guy for FedEx. A respectable job. He always looked clean and groomed. Every once in a while we'd hear him singing along with the Doors at the top of his lungs: "Come on Baby, light my fire!" That was okay. We all need to blast the stereo once in a while.

I had him pegged as an average guy.

As we sorted our laundry into the machines, we got to talking. At that time I was taking writing classes . It must have come up in the conversation, because he told me that he writes poetry. We should exchange writing and give each other feedback on our work, he said. I thought that seemed harmless enough. He knew that I was living with Ken, so I trusted that this was not a pickup attempt.

I told Ken about the conversation. Ken's Spidey Sense was tingling. He said: "That guy's a weirdo. You shouldn't get involved with him." I was all, oh, you're so suspicious. You always think the worst of everyone. What's the big deal?

A few days later there was a plastic bag hanging from the doorknob when I got home. Inside there was a manila envelope from Joe, with a note asking for me to give my opinion on the contents.

At the time the Toronto Transit Commission, the organization in charge of all public transit in the city, was having a competition for a promotional poster. Joe had created a poster that he planned to submit.

No word of a lie, this was his poster:
There was a photo of an old 1970's sedan, rusted and junked out in the middle of the desert. The car was riddled with bullet holes. The slogan under the photo read "TTC: The Better Way".

This wasn't meant to be a joke. He was completely serious. And clearly, completely crazy.

Yes, I suppose taking the bus is preferable to dying because your shot-up rustbucket of a car stranded you in the middle of the desert. But I don't think that that was what the TTC was hoping for by way of a promotional campaign. It's just a wee bit over the top, yes?

There was some other stuff in the envelope along the same lines, but nothing else that I remember quite as clearly as that one piece. He had also enclosed a letter to me, hand-written in cursive on lined notepaper. It was a melodramatic ode to the wondrousness of writing, in which he beseeched me to keep writing, because when I most needed it, it would "save" me.

OK, so he was right on one count... But that didn't make him any less looney.

I returned the materials to him, with a note stating that Ken wasn't comfortable with our arrangement, and I requested that we just go back to saying "Hi" in the halls, like we had before. Fortunately, he respected my request.

And just in case you think I was making too much of the situation, he proved Ken right when he found a girl to move in with him the following year. She had serious problems - you could tell just by looking at her that things weren't OK. They had terrible arguments. The screaming went on and on. Twice, when I started to hear crashing along with the screaming, I called in the police for a domestic disturbance. One of those times the girlfriend was so wild and out of it that they took her away in an ambulance.

Yeesh. Now when Ken has a bad feeling about someone, I listen to him.

Scary things

I had the amazing luck to snap this picture of a heroic young girl, moments after she had performed an emergency appendectomy on her friend in a public washroom.



Just kidding!

For whatever reason, she was colouring her hair in the ladies room at the College Park Mall. When I saw the "bloody" surgical gloves I was momentarily horrified. Then I figured out what was going on. She obligingly let me take her photo.

Also, I had a scary dream last night. Remember my new pyjamas? Last night I went to bed wearing the red pair. I have never before felt so stylish on my way to bed. But I digress...

So I went to bed wearing the red pyjamas. Then I dreamed that I woke up wearing the pink ones. This may seem like no big deal, but I got really upset. I was like: Someone changed my pyjamas while I was sleeping! Who could have done that? Under any normal circumstances, it wouldn't have been possible without waking me up. There's only one explanation. Aliens abducted me in my sleep and changed my pyjamas while I was helpless in their grasp!

I mean, that's really upsetting stuff, right?

Or is that the lamest nightmare you've ever heard?

The Queen

I think it's pretty neat that Canada has a Queen. Although she doesn't interfere at all with Canadian politics, she's still officially our monarch. Here she is, the lovely Queen Elizabeth II.



You may be more familiar with her as the Queen of England (which is where she lives, at Buckingham Palace, in London), however she is in fact the Queen of 16 countries, known as the Commonwealth realms.

I recently saw a TV documentary showing how the Queen keeps herself busy from day to day. For starters, she threw a party for a bunch of visiting dignitaries at the Palace. I was amazed to learn that Buckingham Palace contains 775 rooms and covers 828,818 square feet of floor space. It seriously doesn't look that big in the photos I've seen.

The State Ballroom, where all the major shindigs go down, is 7,000 square feet. That is approximately 7 times the size of my entire home. Can you imagine? I'm glad I'm not responsible for vacuuming that carpet. I would demand a ride-on Hoover.

The cameras went down to the kitchens to view the preparations for the banquet. One of the chefs pointed out platters of fruit that were all set to be laid out on the tables.

"Every piece of fruit is polished," he said. "Every leaf is polished. There may be no blemishes."

The fruit was so perfect it looked fake. The grapes didn't have any of that mysterious white dust that often coats grape skins. I wondered what it's like polishing the Queen's fruit for a living. Is it supremely boring, or is there someone who derives deep and lasting satisfaction from that job?

When the ballroom was prepared, the Queen was brought in to do an inspection. There were seven nervous florists clustered in a corner, awaiting the Queen's judgement on their flower arrangments. If the Queen was displeased with their work, they would be required to be quick like bunnies and produce something more to her liking. Lucky for them, she gave her approval.

Finally, the wait staff were all gathered together for a final pre-banquet debriefing. Rules abounded. No more than two drinks on a tray at any time. The blue light means have your dishes in hand and wait at your station. The green light means place the dishes on the table. The head of the serving staff gave this final, strict advice: "Don't be nervous. Just relax and try to enjoy yourself!" Or the Queen will chop off your head.

The servers looked completely terrified.

What do you think? Would you like to have a Palace of your own? Or do you prefer the life you have? If you were King or Queen, what indulgences would you demand?

Broken Telephone

Yesterday I had this conversation with a prospective customer.

Her: Where are you located?

Me: We're near the intersection of [this road] and [that road].

Her: Oh! I know that neighbourhood! Are you across the street?

Me: *blink* *blink*

I wanted to say "across the street from what?" but I couldn't find a way to do it without sounding like a smart ass, so I just gave up and laughed.

That reminds me of the time another customer said the following to me over the phone:

Him: Oh, honey, I don't have any teeth! I'm a woman's dream!

I can't give you the context of that one without revealing where I work, so you'll just have to keep yourselves up late tonight trying to figure it out.

If anyone can figure out how a 50-something-year-old man with no teeth could be a woman's dream, feel free to speculate in the comments. It's a no-brainer why a toothless woman would be appealing to men, sure, but I don't think that one plays the same both ways.

Whatever the answer, that guy got himself totally worked up with that remark. I thought I'd never get him off the phone. I guess he thought that we were flirting. Ha! Ha. Ha ha ha.

Only one man has ever flirted with me successfully over the phone while I was at work. That was ten years ago, when I was taking calls at a mail order company. I was in Toronto. He was in Calgary. We were around 1700 miles apart, as the crow flies.

Him (drawling): Yer soundin' mighty purty today, ma'am.

Then I heard him blush. Of course I was picturing a sweet cowboy in tight jeans, watching me from under the rim of his stetson, possibly chewing on a stalk of wheat. I was just about ready to jump on a plane to Calgary to go to the county square-dance with him. But I guess he lost his nerve because he didn't get around to inviting me.

The Big Split, Part III

The Big Split Part I and Part II led inevitably to Part III.

The final step was getting my ex down to the courts with me to sign the divorce papers together. We met at the subway station. I looked up from the book I was reading to see him walking towards me, a nervous grin stretching across his face. We took our last walk together to the court building.

He was on his best behaviour. He was always one to present his most charming persona to the outside world, and today was no exception. He was looking very handsome and was doing everything he could to be courteous and helpful.

When our number was called, the clerk who accepted our papers was a middle-aged black woman. Her accent told me that she was from one of the islands in the Carribean. She sifted through our paperwork, checking a detail here, banging down a red-inked rubber stamp there. All the while, she kept glancing up and searching our faces.

She asked us some questions regarding our paperwork. She had us sign here, and here. Now this copy. The she asked:

"Why are you two gettin' a divorce? You seem to get along alright."

"Uh..." We glanced at each other. "It's complicated."

She carried on, shuffling forms, and weilding her rubber stamp. A little later on, she fixed us with another searching look.

"Are you sure you want to get divorced?"

Who was this woman? The Oracle of the Family Law Department?

"Yes. Yes, we're sure." My ex's nervous grin stretched so tightly across his face that I though his lips would split.

She continued processing the paperwork. Finally, she gave us one more long stare, and rendered her verdict. Satisfied that she understood the situation at last, she tilted her chin towards my ex.

"You! You're the bad one."

I stifled the urge to do a touchdown dance. My ex protested.

"Me? Why me? What did I do?"

But it was too late. Her mind was made up. Having settled that matter, she finished our paperwork, took our $400 payment, and sent us on our way.

Now, of course a marriage is a complicated thing, and in no way do I wish to imply that my ex was 100% responsible for our breakup. We both had our issues and we both were experts at pushing each other's buttons. But I tell you, that woman totally made my day. She turned one of the saddest experiences of my life into a crazy, funny story.

Poor Ex. He won't soon forget that day either, methinks.

Ken has a question

It seems that we are seeing more and more ads for air fresheners on TV lately.

There are air fresheners that plug in, air fresheners you spray (aerosol) or spritz (manual), air fresheners that look like candles, and air fresheners that change colour. There are air fresheners that alternate two scents so you don't get bored. There are even multi-scent, themed CD air fresheners that require a special player.

Ken turned to me the other day, as yet another ad came on for scented candles that play music and change colour, and asked:

"What is wrong with people? Do their houses stink that much? Why do we need all these air fresheners?"

I thought that was a really good question. There are definitely more products available than ever before. To me, they mostly smell of chemikills. I try to avoid them if at all possible. In my opinion, the only place an air freshener should be necessary on a regular basis is in the loo. But apparently you're supposed to use them all over the house.

Do people not have time to clean anymore? Do their homes stink that badly that they need a plug-in freshener in every room? Or do some people actually enjoy the air freshener flavours?

Please, write in and answer these burning questions.

How to Play the Didgeridoo

I have a didgeridoo by my desk. According to Wikipedia "The didgeridoo (or didjeridu) is a wind instrument of the Indigenous Australians of northern Australia."

Didgeridoos sound weird, like giant, alien kazoos. Here's a video clip of an aboriginal Australian artist playing the didge. Note that he never stops to take a breath . There is continuous sound. How does he do it? The secret is in his cheeks.



It's called "circular breathing".

I made my own didge from a length of PVC pipe and beeswax (for the mouthpiece). Just getting a sound out of it at all is tricky unless you're an experienced horn player. You have to buzz your lips, like blowing a raspberry, at just the right frequency, with your mouth pressed tightly against the mouthpiece. At first all you get is elephant farts.

Keep practicing! After many frustrating hours of blowing elephant farts, and wondering why the hell you're wasting your time with this ridiculous project, you'll figure out how to get a tone. Practice more! Practice until your lips are numb, your face is red, your head is spinning, and your didge is leaking saliva. (Sorry - it's gross but true. You can't blow raspberries down a tube for 20 minutes at a time without spraying spit. Go ahead: try to prove me wrong!)

OK, so now you can reliably get a tone out of your didge. You are so proud! Show all your friends. Practice changing the shape of your mouth to get different overtones and fancy flourishes. Cool!

But. You still have to stop when your lungs are empty and take another gasp of air to keep going. This breaks up the soothing, hypnotic, didgey drone that you are ultimately aiming for. Now is the time to take that next step to CIRCULAR BREATHING.

Actually, circular breathing is a misnomer. It's not circular at all. As the old saying goes, you can't suck and blow at the same time. The trick is: you fill up your cheeks with air, like a bagpiper's bag. Then, as you quickly sniff more air in through your nose, you squeeze out the air in your cheeks to keep the sound going. You have to take a lot of quick sniffs to fill your lungs, because you don't have time for a deep breath.

Sounds complicated? Let's break it down. First pretend you have some water in your mouth. Now squirt that water out through your lips in a slow stream. Got it? Try it with real water if you're not sure. Once you're comfortable with the slow squirting-out thing, try doing it at the same time as sniffing in through your nose. Squirt+sniff! Squirt+sniff! Good! OK, you just did some circular breathing!

Now you just have to take that over to your didge and keep your lips buzzing the whole time you're at it. Yeah, that's a little harder. It'll take some practicing. Don't worry, your neighbours love didge sounds. Everyone does! I promise. They'll be at your door begging for lessons of their own.

I don't play my didge much, but it's like riding a bicycle. Once you learn, you won't forget. I'm not as good as the guy in the video, and I tend to choke when playing for an audience, but I like being able to say that I can do it. I think it complements my training in violin, and ballet very nicely.

Two Phobias

I have two phobias. There are a lot of things that can make me anxious, but only these two have the power to induce physical symptoms despite my most stubborn willpower. These are: being poked with hypodermic needles and anything to do with uncontrolled bleeding.

Funny thing is, I have a high tolerance for things that would make other people squirm. I have no problems with mice, spiders, snakes, or any other of God's fine creatures. OK, yes, when I lived in the horrible basement apartment with giant cockroaches, I wasn't exactly thrilled to find one burrowing in my duvet. But I could control my disgust and deal with the situation.

I can also handle operations and freaky illnesses on TV (although sometimes I do watch from between my fingers). It takes a lot to seriously gross me out.

But give me a tetanus shot, and I'll go all faint. It doesn't matter that I can't even feel the needle . It doesn't matter how stoic my thoughts are. Even if I don't look, I get that woozy feeling and I know I'm in trouble.

If I'm asked to give a blood sample, it's the same thing times ten. I always ask to lie down for the procedure, because I'll end up horizontal anyway. It's easier to start out that way than to play brave and pass out in a chair.

I wish that positive self-talk could help. I can be so psyched for a situation, like, Come on, girl, it's just a little pinprick! Button up and get it over with! I'll be fine, fine, fine, oh wait, there's a needle... then I start to get this sick, tight feeling between my shoulderblades, my head starts to spin, and that's that.

The worst part of it is how it prevents me from helping other people. There's just no way I could give blood. And the one time I accompanied a friend for a minor surgical procedure was a complete embarrassment.

Before my friend even got called in from the waiting room, I overheard another patient telling her friend about a hemorrhaging problem. Uh oh. I knew I was in trouble. I got up to leave the room, and made it about half-way to the door before I collapsed into a helpless heap on the floor. A big, burly nurse with a buzz-cut told me curtly that I'd have to move because I was blocking the fire exit. I murmured pathetically "I... can't..." She went off and got a second tough-ass nurse. They each grabbed one of my elbows and hauled me, heels dragging, into a spare room, and threw a heating pad on me. Then they left me to stew in my humiliating uselessness.

When the procedure was finished, my friend was sitting up on her cot in the recovery area, chipper as a budgie, chatting away with her neighbours. She looked none the worse for wear. She thanked me for coming to support her, without any hint of irony. Yeah, right, I was so "there for her".

I have tried hypnotism, to no avail. And don't ask me why I'm fine with acupuncture. Those needles aren't hollow, so somehow that makes it OK. I just don't get it.

Sporks and Tomatoes

I am proud to announce my first ever blogging award! Thanks to Tink of Pickled Beef I am the proud recipient of a Golden Spork.



Tasty indeed! Tink's blog is awesome. You should go take a look now, and see who the other lucky award winners were. And I should update my blogroll because I've just noticed that Pickled Beef and so many other of my favourites are not even on there. Bad blogger! I'll get right on that.

And now, boys and girls, its time for a story. Are you all settled comfortably in your chairs? You in the back, stop whispering! OK, today we have the story of Ray and The Tomato.

I used to know a guy called Ray. A regular guy, who had a crush on the girl who worked behind the counter at the local burger joint.

The burgers would come off the grill with nothing but a bun. Ray’s crush was the burger dresser. She had all the toppings and condiments arrayed in bowls on the countertop, ready to go.

Now, for reasons of his own, Ray hates raw tomatoes. He’s OK with ketchup, but don’t put a raw tomato anywhere near him unless you’re looking for trouble.

Up at the counter, the cute burger girl waited for Ray’s instructions. He found himself tongue-tied. After waiting for an awkward moment, she started offering him toppings one at a time.

“Ketchup?”

“Yes”

“Mustard?”

“Yes”

“Relish?”

“Yes”

As she loaded up the burger, he found himself lulled into a feeling of safety by saying “yes” to every offer she made. He wanted to be in agreement with her on everything. He wanted her to see what a nice, agreeable guy he was.

“Onions?”

“Yes”

“Pickles?”

“Yes”

“Tomatoes?”

“Yes”

Burger girl reached for the tomatoes. She already had a slice in her tongs when Ray’s brain kicked into gear and he remembered that he loathes tomatoes. Panicking, he blurted

“NOT THAT ONE!”

She paused, tomato slice dangling in mid-air and one lovely eyebrow raised. Smooth move, Ray.

He spent a lot of time that night imagining what she must have been thinking at that moment.

He never did get her number.